


quintessence

by Marcia Elena (marciaelena)



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s05e13 Patient X, Episode: s05e14 The Red and the Black, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 02:56:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14416182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marciaelena/pseuds/Marcia%20Elena
Summary: Reclaiming life together.





	quintessence

**Author's Note:**

> Written sometime in 2003.
> 
> Takes place sometime after RatB and Patient X, but it's AU, since I've taken the liberty of changing the events of those episodes for my own purposes.

Running, running, stumbling down the hill. Cold wind on his face, sharp and biting, stealing the breath out of him, making his lungs scream for him to stop, please, only for a moment, an instant, a second. Scorching heat behind him, flames eerily illuminating the night and pushing him forward, boots pounding the ground as he goes on running, running.

A new explosion rocks the burning Consortium facility, the force of it throwing him off balance; he stumbles again, falling and rolling like a thrown pebble before he manages to halt his descent, his prosthetic arm twisted beneath him. Before he can even utter a curse Mulder is next to him, pulling him to his feet. And then they're running once more, not waiting to see if Hell is following on their heels.

An eternity passes before they reach their car, and they scramble in, scattering gravel as they drive away. They have a long journey ahead of them, so they take turns at the wheel, grabbing whatever sleep they can in between. Their meals consist of the rations they packed, and bathroom breaks are few and far between, mostly brief stops by the side of the road. Paranoid to the last, they switch cars--and direction--as often as possible, so as not to leave any trail that could be easily detected. 

A week goes by before they're reasonably sure no one's following, and it's only then that they allow themselves the luxury of checking into a motel. 

Tired and dirty as Krycek is, their cramped accommodations seem heavenly to him; the queen sized bed in the middle of the room beckons invitingly, and he actually groans aloud as he debates with himself whether to take the time for a shower now or later, exhaustion tugging at him. 

Mulder breaks the impasse. "You can have the bathroom first," he offers magnanimously, eyeing Krycek with an oddly amused expression. "You look worse than I feel."

"Thanks," Krycek mutters, lacking the energy to feel offended as he staggers to the bathroom. 

Not bothering to close the door behind him, Krycek strips quickly and steps into the hard spray; hot water sluices over him, washing away dirt and sweat and blood, massaging his cramped muscles and taking the edge off of his fatigue. Even so, he's only half awake as he shuffles out of the steaming bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. Mulder is propped up on the bed, stripped down to his boxers and watching TV. Somehow, Krycek manages to make it there before collapsing next to him. He feels Mulder get up; the sounds of the running shower and the smell of clean sheets soon lull him to sleep. 

He comes to hazily when the mattress sags, disturbed by Mulder's weight as he slips into bed next to Krycek. The drag of the sheets over Krycek's bare ass tells him that the towel he was wearing is gone; yet after months of sharing close quarters, neither one of them is embarrassed about the other's nakedness anymore. Krycek's almost asleep again when he hears Mulder's voice, low and wary. 

"Why, Krycek?"

Why. The one thing Mulder always asks him, every day since they've begun this partnership, as if he can't quite come to terms with it, can't accept how similar they really are, how similar they've always been. Both of them on the wrong side of the law these days. 

Krycek sighs, fully awake now, though his eyes are still closed. There are so many possible answers to Mulder's question, and Krycek has probably given him most of them by now. But tonight is different; their circumstances are different. This last was by far the hardest job they ever pulled, and both of them hardly got out of it alive. Krycek's tired, and his defenses are down, and all he wants is to have one more measure of truth between them, however small. 

And so: "Because whatever the hell it is you're still looking for, Mulder, I want to help you find it." 

Opening his eyes, Krycek finds Mulder lying as far from him as the bed will allow. Mulder searches his gaze for an interminable moment before nodding, the ever-present mistrust that colors his features changing into something that Krycek can't quite define. Mulder's eyes on his are suddenly infinitely softer, greenish gold and almost vulnerable, and Krycek can't stand to look at them for long; it hurts. So he closes his eyes again, fleeing inwardly, where everything is dark and silent, and thus, in theory, more bearable. Yet both the softness and the hurt are waiting for him there as he drifts back into sleep, tightly coiled around his heart in insidious loops of hope. 

*

It's pitch black when Krycek wakes up again, and, as usual, he has to fight the disorientation that threatens to engulf him. Drawing deep breaths, he wills his heartbeat to slow down, the seconds vast and elastic as both memory and awareness wash over him. 

Memory first: Scully, dead, her body charred to the bone over a dam in Pennsylvania. Mulder, mad with grief and nearly broken. Him, striking a truce with Mulder and bringing him the information that has led them both into their current path, angels of vengeance seeking the Consortium's destruction, and maybe, if they're lucky, humanity's salvation as well. 

Awareness, then: Mulder's warm body pressed against his, his arm wrapped around Mulder's chest, his half-hard cock nudged against Mulder's ass. Krycek's suddenly afraid to move, not wanting to disturb this moment, craving this contact, accidental as it may be. 

Breathing slowly, he concentrates on Mulder, the feel of his skin, the rhythm of his heart. Mulder's ritual question echoes in Krycek's mind, why, why, why, until it becomes the axis around which his soul revolves. And as honest as the answer Krycek gave him earlier tonight was, there is another answer as well, no less truthful, yet certainly more revealing, and much more damaging: for this. For this peace, this trust, this feeling of home. How sad that it can only happen by mistake, both of them forced to share the same bed because there was no other room available, their proximity involuntary, this closeness unintended. And Mulder asleep.

It's then that Krycek senses it: a slight tensing in Mulder's body, his heartbeat accelerating, his breath changing from deep to shallow. If Krycek was afraid to move before, he's now paralyzed by doubt. Should he stay like this and pretend he's still asleep? Should he roll away and apologize, forget this ever happened?

Mulder seems to share his dilemma, because he doesn't move either. Minutes tick by, seemingly like hours, tension eroding at Krycek's nerves until he knows he must either end this torture or go mad; he begins to pull his arm away from Mulder.

Mulder stops him. His hand grips Krycek's, fast and sure, their fingers entwining instinctively. Krycek holds his breath as Mulder guides his hand in a slow path down his body, this simple slide of skin on skin making Krycek tingle everywhere. And then they're there, both their hands covering Mulder's erection. All the air in Krycek's lungs is expelled in a long, loud moan, and, unable to stop himself, he thrusts at Mulder, his cock now painfully hard. This draws a response out of Mulder: he moans, too, crying incoherently when Krycek's fingers close around him, stroking and squeezing. 

Krycek fastens his mouth to Mulder's shoulder, and Mulder grinds his ass against him, Mulder's hand leaving Krycek's and reaching to find his hip, kneading Krycek's flesh and pulling him even more firmly against him. Whatever blood is still left in Krycek's brain rushes south, and he turns into a creature of instinct, utterly incapable of rational thought. He wants to taste this man, feel him with every sense he possesses, know him inside and out, in a way he's never known anyone or anything else in his life. Krycek wants him. He _wants_ him. 

As if attuned to him--and Krycek can almost believe that he is--Mulder shifts on the bed, turning to face him. Grabbing the back of Krycek's head, Mulder claims his lips in a kiss that is pure hunger, feeding on him, devouring him. Krycek whimpers into his mouth, and Mulder swallows the sound, pulling Krycek even tighter against him, forcing Krycek's mouth to open wider for him as he deepens the kiss. Mulder rolls on top of him, presses him into the mattress, the whole length of his body against Krycek's; and it's all sweetness, feeling bursting open between them, loneliness and fear and grief falling away until there's only need, only them. Sweetness, and heat and velvet and _right_ , and Krycek's arm around Mulder is pulling him down into him, closer, closer, come-closer-crawl-into-me-and-never-ever-leave, tongues mating, cocks rubbing, legs tangling. 

He clings to Mulder, dizzy and desperate. He's dreamed about this for as long as he can remember, and the nearest he ever came to it was the night he came to Mulder's apartment after Scully's death to find him sitting on the floor, his face devoid of expression and his eyes empty. Krycek kissed him then, just barely brushing the corner of Mulder's mouth with his lips, and when he drew away he could see he'd lit an ember in Mulder's eyes, small and fragile. And that was the thing that undid him, undid them both--kneeling in front of him, Krycek offered him his gun, and his life, and all the secrets he knew, and Mulder accepted them. And that ember grew into a blaze, and the blaze into an all-consuming fire, which they both brandish with extreme efficiency. And now that fire is consuming Krycek, consuming them, melting them both into a single being as they kiss and kiss and kiss, and oh god Krycek could die now, but Mulder won't let him, each touch making Krycek feel more alive than ever, and it's too strong, too good, too much, and with a groan he buries his fingers in Mulder's hair and pulls, tearing Mulder's mouth from his, his whole body trembling.

The darkness in the room has lightened into a pre-dawn grayness, and Krycek can just make out Mulder's face as he looks at him, Mulder's hair mussed, his eyes dark, his lips bruised and swollen from their kisses. He's never looked more beautiful to Krycek, the unexpected mixture of desire and tenderness in Mulder breaking him, as Krycek knew it would. He's all cracked up as it is, his soul crisscrossed with fault lines, deep crevasses of pain. Years of it, Mulder's fists pounding into Krycek's flesh when all he wanted from him was softness. But Krycek let him, he craved it, because those were Mulder's hands touching him. Mulder's hands, now caressing his skin and giving him the softness he's always prayed for, making him shiver, breaking him further, making him whole. 

Mulder holds Krycek's gaze with his, making it impossible for Krycek to avert his eyes, making it unbearable to maintain it for long. Krycek struggles to find his voice, and what finally comes out surprises them both.

"Why?" he asks Mulder, mirroring his question. Everything between them reflecting away into infinity. 

"You told me you'd help me find it, Alex," Mulder rumbles, low and hoarse. He leans into Krycek, brushes their lips together. Doesn't pull away even though Krycek's fingers in his hair are tugging at him, hard. "Help me find it," he whispers, and pushes his tongue in between Krycek's parted lips. 

_Am I the thing you're looking for, Mulder?_ Krycek's mind asks, fearing the answer. But his lips and his tongue and his soul kiss Mulder back, speaking to him in a language only the heart understands. A language he knows neither of them is fluent in. 

Yet hope persists.


End file.
